


Wash away the grief

by Hexes



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing, Cultural Differences, Frottage, I Wrote This On My Phone, I was mildly drunk writing part of this, Intersex Character, Interspecies, M/M, Massage, Size Difference, Unresolved Emotional Tension, ambiguous ending, mentions of mpreg, someone get me another beer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19033516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexes/pseuds/Hexes
Summary: Aragorn happens across Frodo bathing in a stream in Lothlorien.Un-beta'd





	Wash away the grief

    Aragorn strolled along the banks of one of the wide, merry streams that wandered through Lothlórien, deaf to its cheer. These last few days had been a balm to many of their souls, but grief still clung to him like stubborn hoarfrost. He sighed, his feet carrying him where they would. The low, slanting light of the late afternoon danced gaily on the rippling surface of the water, oblivious to his sorrow. Aragorn stopped to stand, one hand caressing the trunk of a mallorn, and closed his eyes to listen to the play of the rich waters.

    He heard a gasp.

    Before him, chest deep in the stream, was Frodo. Blue-fire eyes sparkling as brilliantly as the glistening water, his mahogany curls gone coal-black, streaming down his neck and shoulders. The hobbit dropped his gaze, turning slightly sidelong, tucking his chin toward the hollow of his shoulder, a sweet, rosy blush chasing itself up and down his cheeks and neck. Frodo had always been comely, but the fading sunlight painted him in shades of gold and carmine, rendering him a work of art.

    In all the many months they had traveled together, Aragorn had not seen any of the hobbits in such a state, though they had all clearly bathed. It seemed to be their custom to set lookouts to protect their privacy, or else, they slipped away at the most likely moment for them to clean themselves while the others were occupied. When such privacy was not allowed them, they bathed wearing their airy underthings, a habit that was far more intriguing than if they had gone skyclad, especially in the light of their downcast eyes, and bepinked cheeks.

    Now, though, the Ring-bearer was without a single stitch of clothing, wearing only the burden which weighed so heavily upon him.

    "My apologies," Aragorn forced his eyes to sweep away from the enchanting vision, slowly, as though it were no great effort. The custom of bathing apart from the other races had piqued his curiosity, but he had respected their ways. Frodo's gaze raised toward his, the stain on his cheeks deepening as he shook his head ever-so-slightly.

    "There are none necessary," his voice soft as the breeze. Aragorn smiled, sketching a shallow bow to accept the benediction. Frodo's lashes fluttered, and he looked away once more, shy, or simply embarrassed. Aragorn willed himself to walk on, to leave the delicate creature to his business, but the loneliness and grief clutched at him with a fierceness he had not yet known.

    "Might I," he heard his tongue, running without his permission nor blessing, "join you?" It certainly was not what he had thought to say, and at nearly ninety years old, he was surprised that his mouth could still gallivant about without his permission. The blush suffusing Frodo's cheeks glowed like embers in the warm, golden light of the late afternoon.

    "If you wish," Frodo nodded, glancing up at the Man on the bank. The curls of his bow-shaped mouth tightened pleasantly.

Aragorn smiled softly in return. He was but lightly armed, and removing his weaponry was quick work. He shrugged out of his cloak and tunic, sighing into the deepening dusk. He toed from his boots and hose, making swift work to unlace his breeches. He dropped them into a puddle at his feet and stepped out of them, bare to his companion's eyes.

    The coin that purchased the hobbits' modesty meant that Frodo had not seen Aragorn, clad only by the sky. Whenever the fellowship had stopped with the specific intent to bathe, the hobbits would absent themselves to some chore until the others were finished, or simply collapse into a pile at the base of a tree, tied into a tight knot of exhausted bodies. Another soft gasp brought Aragorn's eyes up just swiftly enough to catch the fluttering of soot-black lashes before a wildfire blush blazed all the way to the tips of Frodo's ears as he glanced quickly away, seeming to find the water suddenly and irresistibly fascinating.

    "Do you not wear underthings?" Frodo's voice was reedy, one hand swept up to cover his mouth demurely. ' _Another alluring habit of his,_ ' Aragorn thought, privately.

    "Not at present, no," Aragorn waded into the water, sighing at the touch of the pleasantly cool stream. "I have only so many sets, and all of them were in need of washing," he allowed, ' _or, perhaps, burning,'_ he mused. "It is not so uncommon an occurrence, though," he added, offhandedly, greatly amused by the sound of indignation that wended its way through Frodo's hand.

    The waters of Lothlórien were restorative, enlivening. Aragorn sat, stretching his long legs before him, and settled down onto his elbows, dipping his head back into the stream. He listened intently to the movements of his shy companion, shifting about at first nervously, and then with purpose.

    "If you like," sounded nearer his elbow than the hobbit had been, previously, "I have soap," the warmth of his small body was nearly at his shoulder, now. Aragorn opened his eyes, focusing on the glimmering sapphire of Frodo's. He smiled, endeared.

    "I could not part such luxuries from you," Aragorn said, enchanted by the blush that still clung to Frodo's full cheeks. He had always been the least plump of three hobbits, but now he was slender, his look nearly elfin. He closed his eyes again, slowly renewed by the lazy play of the water. Frodo hummed, wiggling, perhaps, from the sounds of the stream against his body. Deft fingers wound their way into a lock of Aragorn's hair.

    "It is not theft, if it is freely offered," Frodo tugged softly, "it would be even less a crime, were I to assist you…" his voice drifted away, uncertain. Aragorn smiled, following the delicate pull of Frodo's clever fingers.

    "I am to understand that it is an unpardonable affront not to accept gifts, in the Shire." Aragorn allowed, letting his head be cradled in the vee of Frodo's strong, slender thighs. Frodo worked a lather between his hands, the scent of mint and rose bursting into the air like a volley of arrows. Strong, sure fingers set into Aragorn's hair, sure and soothing, working a rich rather into scalp and locks. Aragorn groaned happily. It had been some time since he'd had a proper washing, and the feeling of Frodo's surprisingly strong fingers was driving him to distraction.

    "You are a gift," Aragorn murmured, "sent to me by the Valar," he relaxed further, his shoulders forcing Frodo's thighs wider still, the base of his skull coming to rest in the juncture of one thigh to hip.

    "Nay," Frodo's smile caressed his words, "I am simply a Hobbit of the Shire," his thumbs worked in, pressing against Aragorn's temples.

    "And who made hobbits, if not the Valar?" Aragorn smiled in return.

    "I do wonder sometimes," Frodo began, as he ran water through Aragorn's hair, "what Yavanna's design could be, to make us so small, yet so… voracious." He passed the soap down the length of Aragorn's neck, the minty tingle complementing the power of the water beautifully.

    "I cannot speak for the Divine," Aragon admitted, catching a pleased moan just behind his teeth, "but your appetite for comfort is a boon in which I shall gladly indulge." Frodo began to knead at his shoulders, fingers delving into the hollows and pushing forward, into the thick of his chest.

    "Comfort is hard found, in these dark times," his masseur allowed, "we must give and receive it whenever the opportunity -" he broke off as Aragorn's head lolled, turning toward his awakening sex, his voice cracking as it had not since he was a tween.

    "Arises?" Aragorn supplied, a lascivious smile curling the edges of his mouth, though he did not open his eyes. Frodo gasped a chuckle, dumping a handful of cool water over the Man's chest in mild rebuke for the terrible pun.

    "I had meant to say 'presents itself'," Frodo breathed, fingers emboldened by Aragorn's smirk. Deft fingers drifted downward, brushing gently over already-peaked nipples. Aragorn hummed a response as he turned over, one arm threading its way over a pale thigh, eyes trained on Frodo's blushing face.

    "And is it?" He inquired, needing surety.

    "Is what?" Frodo responded, slightly breathless, thighs still spread around the expanse of Aragorn's chest, one trapped beneath the bulk of an arm, the other draped lewdly over a shoulder.

    "Presenting itself," Aragorn elaborated, pushing his shoulder against the back of Frodo's thigh, hitching the hobbit's knee toward his neck. Frodo's lids fluttered, raven lashes shuttering brilliant sapphire eyes.

    "I may be different than you imagine," he breathed, a wonton gasp that set desire stampeding through Aragorn's heart.

   "I have an active imagination," Aragorn intoned. Indeed, he did and had imagined various pastimes involving his lovely companion. He ran hungry lips over a delicate clavicle, his hand coming to catch the knee nestled against his neck.

    "And detailed, no doubt," Frodo teased, resisting Aragorn's advances, "but you are a Man, and I doubt you are versed in all lore concerning hobbits." Frodo caught Aragorn's chin and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Next, he caught the hand on his knee and drew it up, "let us move," he tugged softly, his lush lower lip caught in his teeth, eyes coy.

    They moved to the bank, Aragorn quickly snapping his cloak out to cover the earth like a blanket. Frodo smiled again, his eyes heavy with promise he laid down, his weight caught on his elbows, he let his head fall back as he regarded his companion. Aragorn fell to his knees, ravenous in the face of Frodo's blatant display.

    "I think, however, your imaginings may be lacking certain details, Aragorn," he shifted one leg, slowly opening himself to the Man's gaze. "Hobbits can be quite different from Men," he ran fingertips over the crease of his thigh, lifting his need up, to lay along his belly, revealing himself to Aragorn's eyes.

    Aragorn inhaled sharply. Where he had expected a set of stones, a set of wet, beckoning lips sat, cloaked in dark curls. He leaned forward, entranced.

    "Many of us are suchlike," Frodo intoned, reaching for Aragorn's thick shoulder, "Yavanna gave us many blessings," he caught the Man's gaze, and curled his hips up, "Ilúvatar gave you his gift, and she gave us ours," he gasped as Aragorn laid a reverent hand over his sex, the Man's grasp large enough to cup the lips of his fertility, fingers along his length. "I do not know - " he shuddered as Aragorn's fingers curled along his length, "if I would quicken from you," he tugged on the Man's shoulder, "but I would have you any way we might."

    " _You_ are a gift," Aragorn breathed again, sliding up the length of Frodo's body. He was tall for a hobbit, yet so small by comparison. He laid against Frodo, nestling himself between pale thighs, "and I am honoured to have whatever it is we might." He moaned softly into the riot curls crowning Frodo's head as small hands found purchase on his hips. Frodo pressed, and Aragorn rolled, stretching himself flat on the cloak, hands settling on Frodo's thighs.

    "You do not know what I might take," he flirted, resting himself over the Man's length, his folds slick and wanting, as he slid himself back and forth, his hips stuttering with need. "Perhaps I could grow your seed - take a child from your spend," he rocked more insistently.

    "Then we might always have part of one another," Aragorn grasped desperately at Frodo's hips, nearly undone when he glanced down between the hobbit's thighs. "Take what you will," he snaked a hand down to wrap around their lengths, letting the rhythm of Frodo's hips move them together.

    "You tempt me sorely, Aragorn," he whispered, eyes cloudy with want, "and I find myself weak for you," his pace faltered, the sensation of the Man's hand, about his length, on his hip, his broad chest, and stormy eyes. His crisis crashed over him, pleasure flooding from his fertility, cascading over Aragorn's need, soaking him thoroughly. Aragorn arched under him, his hand slipping down to wring his own completion from his body in a mere few strokes, his spend mixing with Frodo's on his belly.

    Frodo leaned down, ghosting his lips along Aragorn's as he rolled to the side, a pleased smirk scrawled across his face. Aragorn rolled along with him, coming to his side to lean down with another kiss.

    "We should wash," he murmured against full lips.

    "Nay," Frodo ran his fingers through Aragorn's hair, "I am not yet done taking."

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I can never actually just finish a story? Like. I get an inspiration, and I begin to write, and then *boom* the plot bunny disappears, and my dumb ass is left here with my phone in my hand and no thoughts in my brain.  
> Anyway - there's an oblique reference to Mahal Makes Many Beautiful Things in here, and someday I'll finish that work, and then this cryptic note will make better sense.  
> Comments help my raspberry bushes produce <3


End file.
